Bat Lash: Family Ties
by anoneight8
Summary: Folklore tells of Bat Lash, gambler by trade, womanizer by design, and outlaw by tragic error. But what became of him? Did his story ever really end? What parts remain to be told? Set from the 1860's all the way to the events of Blackest Night.
1. The Offer

**Author's Notes**: This fic has been eating at me for _months_ now. I've rearranged and restarted it in so many different ways, so many different times since the idea first came. So I apologize for whatever you eventually see here, because I'm still very much up in the air myself on many things. But to keep some sanity, I think I finally have decided where to _start _at least. But please don't be dissuaded by the strangers you initially find here, or even the ones peppered through later on. This_ is_ a story about Bat Lash, though I'm sure there will also be other familiar faces soon enough.

The original idea came from reading Susan Hillwig's ongoing Jonah Hex story _Shades of Gray_ over at DC2 (also crossposted here now in the DC Elseworlds section, so give it a read!). But seeing her Jonah Hex brought back after the events of Blackest Night in the modern day DC universe, made me wonder what had ever become of Bat Lash as well. It would just seem impossible that Lash wouldn't have had at least some descendant with all the women throughout his life. But then if he did, what would be the story there? And how did Bat die anyway? We really don't see much of his full life in the comics, besides his parents' deaths, his aimless wandering in his prime, and himself as an old man abruptly in China, under assumed self-exile for some reason in the later_ Guns of the Dragon _miniseries. So, being the sort that I am who can't leave well enough alone with my favorite characters, I wanted to see how much I could try and fill in. Leading all the way up to the events of Blackest Night as well. And just for the record, though I'm sure it'll be evident soon enough, I did go with Bat's original origin story, making him a Louisiana native as per the old comics. It just always seemed a better fit to me. Though I don't negate any bit of bias myself, being born and raised there as well.

But yes, whoever may stumble across this, just be kind if you can. I'm not always sure of my direction, but once this was in my head I just had to attempt it. It wasn't going to let me go. I just hope it turns out as something mildly decent...

* * *

**Baton Rouge****, Louisiana****: 1937 **

It was already half past noon as Timothy Rodrigue first reached his office. He could only be grateful that there was no one in the hallways to spectate this time as he was then forced to perform his usual juggling act, harrowingly balancing this morning's exams on one arm while he fought the rusty lock to his office door with the other.

In his imagination, there could certainly be nothing but a special type of pity reserved for the sight of a balding, pasty little man, now on the bad end of forty, being conquered by a simple lock that he had notified the campus' maintenance men of time and time again.

But with a little perseverance, and at least some favorable application of that bit of extra weight he still resented his body for achieving, he managed to force the door open with a final pop without letting a single paper flutter from his grasp.

That small victory was relished with a cathartic inhale of breath, the man taking in the familiar smells of his humble safe haven as he entered it. The window was still cracked open from this morning, the cool February breeze wafting gently in over his stacks of papers and leather-bound books. The small potted azalea in the corner contributed its own unique fragrance to this calming environment as he gladly dumped his burden onto the desk before opening one of the bottom drawers to search out his lunch.

By the time he'd settled down in his chair with a now unwrapped roast beef sandwich and a thermos of tea he'd brewed hours earlier, little else was on his mind but the vague idea of some weekend ahead. He could envision his students' potential amazement to learn that even their unassuming professor could still place some untold mystique to the concept of a Friday afternoon now near half over.

The man's idle daydreams of perhaps finishing some more of his writing from a crisp, Saturday morning perch near the river's edge, became distracting to the point that he didn't even register that first knock to his door. It wasn't until the second, almost more hesitant knock actually, that the professor abruptly looked up from his mental wanderings.

"Come in," was of course all he could say at the interruption, expecting at most a colleague with some tidbit of news, or at worst, a dissatisfied student come to completely derail his lunch hour with whatever was the latest perceived cruelty in their current assignments.

But the surprise on the other end of the door quickly revealed Rodrigue wrong on both counts as it swung further open. The professor only looked a bit confused to be truthful, as he found his eyes meeting those of a quite out of place looking young stranger hovering there in his doorway. The boy absolutely couldn't be a day over seventeen, tall and slim, and with a look of uncertainty about him that spoke for likely never having set foot near this building at any point prior.

It was only belatedly that Rodrigue also realized the boy was holding a decidedly western style hat level with his stomach, as if he had just removed it in some reflexive gesture of respect mere seconds before.

"Mr. Rodrigue?" The young stranger questioned abruptly, light blue eyes watching the older man from under a tousle of dirty blonde hair.

A rather ignorant sounding, "Yes?" was about all the professor could provide in return however, a quizzical expression still forefront on his own face before the boy tried again.

"I'm Lucas…we corresponded." He offered somewhat more hopefully. "You said that any time after noon today would be as good a time as any to talk, sir…"

And at that, some realization finally struck. The surprise was more than obvious as it flashed across Rodrigue's face while he gave the boy yet another bewildered look over. He'd literally forgotten all about that little fiasco over mail a few weeks prior, with the letter and the questions that he hadn't at all taken seriously at the time. He'd thought it a joke plain and simple, a prank he'd mentally dismissed not hours after mailing his own somewhat sarcastic response in return. He could only assume now that someone had just been wholly _more _dedicated to this poor attempt at humor than he'd originally thought.

Despite the stranger's dubious intentions however, Rodrigue stood from his desk regardless then, carrying that heavy suspicion along even as he extended his hand to greet the boy.

"So _you_ wrote me that letter?" Rodrigue inquired boldly, though perhaps slightly regretting his decision to come so close when it made the true disparity of their height difference all the more apparent.

"Yes, sir," the boy just answered so simply though, returning the handshake firmly, unabashed in whatever mistrust plainly lingered. "I know you probably weren't too sure about all that, but I was hoping you might decide to help us after all…I brought a few of those writings that I mentioned. The ones he'd been doing off and on."

But before Rodrigue could even consider further reaction to that preposterous statement, the boy had fluidly reached inside his coat to indeed pull out a small bundle of papers as evidence. He offered them to the professor without hesitation. "The rest are still at the house, sir."

The professor's mind was abuzz as he barely contained the natural desire to immediately protest such assured forgeries. But he could still only take the papers when they were forced in front of him in that manner. He had no choice but to look at them reflexively, only glancing down enough to realize that the pages were indeed filled with paragraph after paragraph of handwritten prose. But which of his prankster students, or even his peers could really be creative enough to take something this far?

Even the handwriting itself was almost overly decorative in the way it flowed. Not at all a resemblance to the scratchy penmanship he would have come to expect from the majority of those young minds he currently dealt with. There was a craft to it, a flair even. But he still couldn't fully believe…the implications would have been far too alarming. Surely a joke could only go so far…

Rodrigue wasn't the confrontational type, truly he wasn't. He looked to the boy with some embarrassment, just hoping the other would be satisfied that he'd already gotten whatever rise that he expected. The professor didn't wish to participate as the butt of this any farther.

But when the boy still just stared back at him, not showing an ounce of guilt or contrition in those too light eyes, Rodrigue knew there was only one immediate way to end this.

"Hold on," The professor just asserted abruptly, nervous though even as he then turned away from the stranger.

He only felt a curious stare at his back as he hurriedly approached his desk to fumble for his keys yet again. When he had them, he took just a few more quick steps across the office to one of his filing cabinets. He unlocked it before digging somewhat harshly through one of the bottom drawers. He'd collected so very _many_ documents over the years. Some stored here at the university, some in his study at home. Things he'd researched for previous publications, things he'd hoped to write about in the future, and yet even a few more that'd simply goaded his curiosity undeniably.

After a few more moments of sorting effort, he'd retrieved a specific folder to bring back to his desk. With this little treasure he was far more gentle, opening it carefully to reveal yet another stack of papers. But these were all severely yellowed, mottled and dog eared at the corners as he softly flipped through them.

He abruptly stopped with the retrieval of the one paper only he knew as the target, immediately placing it side by side with some of the newer ones the boy had brought.

It didn't take long for professional habits to take hold. But even Rodrigue didn't believe there was ever truly such thing as a "handwriting expert". He didn't claim to be one. That skill was only a matter of practice and personal judgment. He'd seen an innumerable amount of handwriting samples throughout his academic years, from men and women of all walks of life, each and every one so unique in its own right.

An uncanny forgery of anyone was still always possible he supposed. But to him, one of the strongest deciding factors in judging that authenticity was the likelihood of such a farce. How many pages would someone be willing to create? How probable would a motive be for this much effort? Why would they choose to do this? Why would they _need_ to do it?

Rodrigue knew that the one who could best answer such a question on motive would likely be the very one who'd first delivered the controversy. But even as the professor struggled to think of a proper line of questioning for the stranger, he'd already noticed just how intently the boy was also staring at the papers. As if confirming to himself the validity of the document Rodrigue had just unearthed for comparison.

Though whatever the boy's standards were in making that positive identification, it evidently didn't take him nearly as long to do so as a wry grin abruptly broke across those young features.

The boy's voice was so casual then, almost upbeat as if it'd only rekindled a fond memory. "He told me about that once. A train robbery in Wyoming that they tried to pin on him. It was twenty grand in government gold being transferred, but he only knew the ones that lifted it. And the sheriff didn't pay him near enough to tell."

The professor felt his stomach fall, as if his insides had gone to his feet, and his heart to his throat. He only stared, unspeaking as those words washed over him. _He told me… _

The aged paper from the filing cabinet had been something Rodrigue had come across years ago, of guilty interest of course due to their own local folklore and the name involved. But the legal affidavit gave no mention of the territory the crime had occurred in or even the items the writer was being accused of taking. All it really was, was the vague, almost taunting excuses of a briefly jailed man accounting for the reasons why he _wouldn't_ have been at all interested in the effort required to disturb Union Pacific property.

It was such an obscure thing. Certainly not a story that would still be recounted about him today, not with so many that were far more dramatic. It was only a snapshot in time, a single night in a far off jail long before either Rodrigue or this boy had ever been born. But the boy had still known the exact amount. Twenty thousand worth in gold from the federal reserve…

The professor suddenly wished the mild breeze through his office window had been something more akin to a storm gust. Beads of sweat were beginning. He tugged at his tie absently, the idea of a simple joke rapidly disappearing now. And if this _was_ all real, then the stranger before him was no longer truly harmless either.

_The boy was one of them. _

A notion that only grew more alarming all the while as they remained alone in such small quarters. Only so few minutes ago he'd been calmly eating while contemplating a quiet weekend ahead. And now this young messenger, so unassuming at first, had delivered a windfall at his doorstep. Rodrigue knew so many writers who would have literally run through fire for such opportunity.

But was that him? Anything to tell the story first? He knew the gist of what had happened, they all did. It'd been in all the newspapers, and even before then…

The older man tried not to let that inner distress broadcast so plainly to his face, even as he finally mustered his voice once more, "_Why?_" He heard himself asking at last. "Why would you…why _me?_"

For once, the boy briefly looked almost as uncomfortable as Rodrigue felt. His hands tightened on his hat still in front of him. "I've read your other books, sir," He insisted quietly. "About lots of people. Whether they were like him or not…it just seemed…more real. You kept the good and the bad…like you only cared about the truth…" A little bit of frustration flickered in those eyes then, as if he had so much more to say, but didn't quite know how to express it. "You were born and raised here…you know about what people say. What they've _always_ said…especially now. Trying to make a profit any way they can…embellishing it all until he's not even a person anymore…"

Rodrigue couldn't deny that accusation of course. They'd all grown up with those morality tales. Folklore told of a greedy heart, one with a complete absence of accountability, but swollen with the devil's own charm. There was the thievery and gunfights, the lust and murders and tragedy. Yet all those fables had eventually faded alongside so many others as the old South had reluctantly began the crumble towards industrialization and modern day problems like the rest of the country.

It wasn't until last December when the papers had been awash with the realization that there yet remained one more chapter to be told. Sensationalized accounts detailed one last run of blood on that same stretch of Louisiana land that'd seen so much through all those years beforehand.

There'd even been the pictures that'd escaped into print…death had brought all those stories back with a vengeance. But now, Rodrigue could only be forced to accept the realization that behind all that fanfare and chaos, there had of course been real faces like this boy's all along. But even _him_…even this boy had acted that day according to the reports. The police had closed the case now; they were satisfied that nothing more could be done. But that didn't erase what decisions were made in those final moments.

"How many more are there…" Rodrigue just heard himself asking to break the silence, sounding weak to his own ears as he motioned his hand back to the papers the boy had brought.

"A good bit," the boy just answered quietly though, glancing down again. "But he talked about a lot of it too…the things that didn't bother him as much I mean. I could tell ya all I know. She'll be back in town soon too though, she said she was willing to talk to someone if it was for the right reasons…"

Rodrigue felt an odd sense of embarrassment mix with his already heavy anxiety as he again realized the depth of what was truly being offered here. So many things he'd written had always come secondhand…a necessity when most things only became historical once fully buried or forgotten. But here would be a man's thoughts, a man's actual _words_ in front of him. As well as those of the few people who must have cared enough for his memory despite everything that had happened. Cared enough to ask for this...

What other choice could he possibly have?

"Did your grandfather _want_ a book written about him?" Rodrigue finally mumbled awkwardly, in lieu of any better final response.

The boy hesitated a bit at that, before surprising the professor with a sheepish smile. "To tell the truth…I think he always was a mite jealous that no one thought to ask him before the others..."

* * *

**One Week Later**

Rodrigue's superiors hadn't surprised him much in their instant willingness to let him depart on a research sabbatical even already this far into the new semester. The history department hoped to attach their own name to this he was sure as they'd practically sent him off like a shot after he'd approached them with the initial explanations. He'd already assured himself that he would stay with the family no longer than was absolutely necessary though. He needed only the time to gather their personal accounts and see the actual settings so much of it had taken place at, before returning home to begin typing up his drafts with whatever notes he had gathered.

As he didn't own a car himself however, he'd had to depend on being driven by another coworker out into the country. Bouncing up and down the dirt roads all the way, unsettling his stomach even more by the time they'd finally neared the plantation grounds.

He'd seen numerous pictures of the old home before of course, and only tried to think of the pleasant ones now as he first began unloading his bags from off the car's floorboards. But his friend, a math instructor about a decade his junior, seemed less able to keep with those easier thoughts. Rodrigue noticed the other man just eyeing down the footpaths that led to those towering white columns, as if the whole thing were some gaping maw between the two rows of centuries old liveoak trees off the levee.

"Are you expecting it to sneer at you, Mark?" Rodrigue finally commented, unable to ignore his own discomfort even as he inwardly assured himself that every old house developed an imposing quality at one time or another. It was the stories they were thinking of, not the home itself. A building on its own was simply inert, just an arrangement of bricks and wood and plaster. But with the expression on Mark's face, Rodrigue could still only imagine his friend somehow driving just a bit faster as soon as he was on his way. As if the land itself would somehow roll up to pull him back.

"Couldn't pay me to sleep in that place, Tim." Mark just answered unabashedly though, confirming that line of thinking. All those years of higher education were apparently still not enough to fully distance a man from such primal superstition.

"They _aren't_ paying me," Rodrigue only countered though, still keeping himself busy with his suitcases instead of inviting his own imagination to further join in that foolishness. "The school is, and after that I suppose I'll get the smallest percentage off the book as well." It tended to work that way from all prior experience anyway.

Usually Mark's relative youth and the ideas that came from that were part of his charm. But the younger instructor could also showcase not yet being one of those old guard elitists with moments of surprisingly vulgar humor. And he did so then, taunting lightly. "Well, are you at least going to lift the rugs to check for blood, Tim? If you're going all the way in, you might as well see it all for the effort. They say they never got it all washed away."

Rodrigue just offered his friend a somewhat helpless look at that however, trying not to honor the off-color remark with too much reaction. "Would you like me to stay up counting the midnight footsteps as well? Documenting every groan and creak, and the wind against the clouded window panes, just for you?"

The other just shook his head then though, smiling lightly, but still not really apologetic. "I don't care how old we get, Tim, and what we know shouldn't be. Some things are still older than all the books in the world. And I have to assume that evolution put certain fears into us for a reason. I'd still think I wouldn't want to tempt it."

"I didn't come to _tempt_ anything." Rodrigue protested as well as he could have, a futile effort when logic had already departed here. "I'm simply writing a book. Because I've been _asked_ to. I didn't invite myself, and I'll be gone soon enough. So thank you for the ride, I'll stay in contact to keep you posted."

"Well, make sure of it. Or else I may have to organize a rescue party." Mark agreed half-seriously, laying the last bag down at the edge of the road before shaking hands with his friend. He stepped gingerly back up into the driver's seat with another wave.

Rodrigue obliged with a nod, though admittedly somewhat wishing that the younger man would have also helped him in taking his luggage down the lengthy walk to the house. He hadn't really tried to ask though, only reaffirmed in his belief that it would have been too much to hope for as Mark had hurriedly gotten back into the car.

It was only a house. Bricks, wood, and plaster.

But Rodrigue thought he could even hear the car's engine whining at a slightly higher pitch than it had before as the vehicle, and his only friend here, disappeared in a haze of dust back around the bend.

* * *

_to be continued_


	2. Where The Heart Is

**Author's Notes:** Okay, here we are with the next little bit. As well as the beginning of the skipping back and forth between time periods that will pretty much be how most the fic works I guess. More disjointed of a narrative than I'm used to, but it was the only way I knew to try this story. Hopefully it won't be too confusing. This setup also makes everything really dependent on dates and a set timeline too though. Which as everybody will know, is a lot to ask for when working with comic characters. Dates are often very fuzzy in canon, if ever mentioned at all. So there will definitely be times where I had to just decide and compromise on certain things.

As far as this fic is concerned though, I really took the events of _Guns of the Dragon _and their hard date of 1927 and worked backwards from there for other major events in Bat's life. I used Hex's canon birth and death dates (b.1838, d.1904) as well to try and establish some relative ones for Bat, whom I've always assumed was a good bit younger (I ended up with a birth year of 1848 just for simplicity's sake). And must be true if it was possible for Bat to still be up and kicking rather well by the late 1920's.

But as you'll see in this chapter, I have Bat as being 18, still on his parents' farm in 1866. Which is all fine and dandy, considering he did say in his own comics (the old ones anyway) that he was 18 when his family was killed. _But_, his guest appearances with Scalphunter in WWT had he (looking quite the grown man) and Scalphunter already running around together in Civil War shenanigans as early as 1862! Well, I figure that would just make Bat too old for everything that came after. Kind of swept that bit under the rug since they weren't his own comics anyway, and have him meeting Scalphunter later than that. Though just for comparison to my little fudge, the newer Bat Lash comics have him still as a kid on his parents' farm as late as 1875! Which to me, I'd think he'd already have known and been palling around with Hex and co. by then. So yes, comics are terrible that way, you just have to pick something and run with it. I just try to explain myself here and now for any continuity sticklers out there, I did the best I could!

* * *

**Louisiana: 1937**

The sky was grey and uninviting, last week's sun and clear skies having dissolved under another push of unseasonable weather from the north. The only positive was that with this abrupt drop in temperatures, at least Rodrigue didn't sweat as he'd gradually carried his heavy bags down the dirt path that led up to the front of the plantation. The ancient oaks hung over him at either side, the only real sound being the crows cawing loudly in their branches, pestering him he thought as he'd stared up for them occasionally.

But he couldn't make out the creatures any time he'd tried, only hearing their calls again and again behind the Spanish moss as he'd finally reached the porch's high steps. His nearsighted eyes could see the flaking paint on those once white columns then though, faded and cracked in so many areas as he'd laid his bags at the base of the wide stained glass doorway. The wood of the door was painted black, the patterns in its glass resembling flowers of different colors as he'd first rapped his knuckles loudly against the frame.

Anxiety had followed him all the way down from the road. But he would think that anyone waiting like this, all the while not knowing what lay before them, would have felt similarly out of place and vulnerable.

He listened for any movement inside the home. But the glass had too many angles to see clearly in, bisecting the image of what he could only assume was a foyer into a blur of sharp angles and darkened shapes.

Rodrigue only knocked again within a few moments, helpless but to wonder how well the sound would carry to anyone in a distant room inside. But after several more minutes of just standing there, uncomfortable and glancing about, he decided there was no sense in continuing. He reasoned that no one would have known the exact hour to expect him by. He hadn't given a precise time, not sure himself how long it would take Mark to make the drive this far.

So it looked as if all he could do was continue to wait until someone returned. But that wasn't so unpleasant he reasoned. He wasn't that impatient to get inside, and his coat held back the air's chill for now.

He left his bags where they were, taking a few hesitant steps around the porch after a while. Rodrigue wasn't sure where he'd intended to go, but somehow the farther he moved from that door, the more he'd doubted the idea.

Perhaps it would have been best just to stay in one place. He didn't know this property, nor did he yet feel he had permission to wander it.

There were a few white rocking chairs lined across the porch. They looked antique in their own right, weathered but sturdy. He chose the nearest to the left of the door, knowing nothing else to do but eventually just sit and watch towards the levee as the crows still called.

Weariness must have taken hold not long after his decision to rest though. That would be all Rodrigue could reason with himself later on. That his body had just been more deprived of sleep than he'd first realized. He'd stayed up to pack his things late into the night, and woken so early for the long ride ahead. He must have fallen into that state just between sleep and wakefulness without realizing it.

The sudden jolt and the shudder that went through him as he'd abruptly lost his balance out of the chair without ever feeling himself slip, couldn't have really been explained any other way.

His arms had just outstretched on instinct as his knees had roughly hit the porch. He'd somehow expected to feel the chair strike down on him next, taken with him. But it only rolled back, remaining upright as he'd tried to catch his breath. And when he had actually glanced back at it, still shaken in his surprise, it wasn't even rocking either. It only sat perfectly still as if he'd never been in it. The chair seemingly oblivious to his dramatic exit as he could only stare up to it incredulously before climbing hesitantly up to dust his pants clean.

Rodrigue reached out to touch it again afterward though, only God knew why. He moved the chair with one hand, then letting it go to see it just continue rocking undeterred as he would have expected beforehand.

But he wouldn't be allowed to dwell on that confusion for long. Not when an abrupt drone in the distance had startled him all over again. It was only then that he finally noticed the crows had quieted, as he eventually saw another cloud of dirt being kicked up before a dark blue truck came bounding into view. It careened right on by as Rodrigue stared from the porch. It seemed quite louder than Mark's car as it then turned sharply onto a side path, disappearing out of view behind the tall hedges that lead to the plantation gardens. Rodrigue only heard that rumbling engine and the crush of the tires to dirt as it rounded somewhere behind the house, then abruptly cut off.

The professor was only left waiting again then, anxiously alone once more after all the noise had quieted. That feeling of unease only increased as time seemed to stretch indefinitely before he finally heard something again, running footsteps somewhere along the side of the house.

Then abruptly, a hand came over the side railing of the porch, and another before the boy from before revealed himself. Just hopping over the barrier with an almost impish look as his long legs swung over to plant his slim weight easily.

The professor opened his mouth to say something, anything at the surprise, before he realized there was still even more noise, a sudden skittering of claws up the steps behind him. Rodrigue could only attempt to turn before some large blur collided with his legs, nearly making him tumble to the ground all over again.

A sharp whistle emerged from his left almost immediately though and the blur was gone just as quickly, bounding over to the grinning boy who'd called it.

"You'll have to forgive Deputy, Mr. Rodrigue. Firstly, he's too young to have any manners yet. And secondly, he can't _stand it_ when I beat him onto the porch."

As the professor looked on, the boy just continued to smile, ruffling the dog's floppy ears with both hands as its tail moved in a frantic sway behind it.

"A Catahoula leopard dog?" The professor offered for lack of anything better to say, still somewhat ruffled by the speed of events as he tried to garner his voice. But a cursory glance was all it took to notice that tell tale splotchy coat that looked as if a grey dog had run through a violent spray of black and brown paint.

"Yes, sir. His daddy's still up and kicking too, but I guess you'll meet him later. Whole lot calmer than this one though, I promise. Have to keep this terror away from him so the old fella can get some peace now and again!" The boy started digging in his pockets for a house key while continuing to talk. "The older dog's name is Sheriff by the way. Pretty awful I know. But wasn't my idea. Granddaddy said they were both just too dang nosy, so it kind of stuck. These boys gotta be in your business wherever you go, all the time."

As the boy eventually found the key he was looking for and moved to unlock the door, he glanced back again, almost in afterthought. "You didn't have to wait too long did you?"

"No, not more than twenty minutes I wouldn't think," Rodrigue answered without even really being sure, thinking briefly again about his odd instance with the chair. But common sense decided that better left unmentioned before the door had swung open and the boy motioned him inside.

* * *

**The Next Morning **

The sun had barely risen by the time Rodrigue found himself outside again. The air was dry and the grass seemed to crackle under his feet with light frost as he daringly wandered farther from the shadows of the plantation. The sun had just begun to edge the horizon in dusky hues, not yet warming the earth as he continued on.

The feeling of caution from yesterday had not at all dissipated. But remaining alone in that house would have been equally uncomfortable. His breath trailed him in white puffs as he took in the silence of dawn now, eyes moving from one sight to another. He passed a large fountain behind the home, now cracked and choked with vines. Its guardian cherubs still stared out inquiringly however, even with the water gone from the open mouths of the swans below them. One of the birds had even lost its head he noticed, the throat only coming up to a jagged point in the early light.

There seemed to be little rhyme or reason to the areas of the property that had been maintained, and those that had been left to languish. The boy had shown him briefly around the plantation's many rooms the evening before. And as elegant and impressive as it had all still been, there had still seemed something more beneath that polished veneer.

Even if the inner walls still held their rich colors- even if the furniture, paintings, and chandeliers still sat and hung in all the same places they likely had for generations, there remained an innate disquiet to it all. Whether shut off or not, it was evident that so many rooms had long lost their use, with no real warmth left to be found no matter what effort could ever be put into preserving them.

He could already imagine speaking with Mark again, perhaps stringing his superstitious colleague along with some exaggerated descriptions resembling Poe's house of Usher.

But for now, all Rodrigue really tried to keep in mind was the notebook in his hands and the few pens stashed in his coat pockets. Not the memory of the indiscriminate pops and creaks, or the cold drafts that had robbed him of sleep in one of the large upper bedrooms the night before.

He wouldn't be staying here long. He kept assuring himself of that. The sooner he saw what there was to see, and heard the stories left to be told, the sooner he would be back at the university and returned to the usual, safe monotony of his life.

As he finally neared the end of one of the winding paths he'd found himself on, he paused to regard what in his ignorance he only would have described as an old barn. Though the boy had called it a stable, their agreed meeting place when they'd last spoken before retiring the night before.

The truck he'd seen the day prior was also there. The vehicle was dust covered, and somewhat muddied now that he could really see it. It was parked haphazardly at an angle in the dirt beside the stable. Tire gouges in the earth around it likely denoting that space as its usual resting spot. The tailgate was down, a couple large sacks splayed in the back of the bed as Rodrigue approached.

"Mornin'!" A voice broke the air beside him.

It _shouldn't_ have surprised him that greatly, and Rodrigue only hoped the slight jerk his body had given at the sound wasn't enough to be noticed as he'd then watched the boy emerge from nowhere, jumping nimbly back into the truck bed just to throw another of the heavy looking bags over one shoulder.

"Just gotta get this feed put away, then we can head out," he assured cheerfully enough.

There was the jingle of a collar that also accompanied the boy's words, the dog darting around the truck anxiously below before following its master right back into the stables once the boy had leaped back down.

Rodrigue had been somewhat surprised actually when the boy had woken so early. He believed he'd heard him milling around downstairs even a couple hours before the first hint of daybreak. But it seemed the young man was really about the only one left on hand to take care of things currently. He'd mentioned something the day before about other help only coming when needed. Relatives of one of the families that had always worked around the home, still discretely loyal to this place even now.

"Have you ever ridden a horse, Mr. Rodrigue?" The boy questioned without warning however when the professor had finally meandered in behind him.

At this Rodrigue had hesitated plainly, not at all fond of those word's implications. Obviously, he'd assumed they just would have been taking the truck.

But when he didn't answer quickly enough, it only earned him some embarrassment to boot as the boy just smirked to him with a shake of his head. "I figured as much. But don't worry, you can take Natchez. Old girl couldn't buck you if she wanted to, she'll just follow my horse without a thought. You won't have to do a thing but climb on."

"Why horses?" Rodrigue finally garnered the will to blurt not long after though, only glancing fleetingly at the elderly mare the boy had gestured to. The withered looking creature certainly didn't inspire much hope.

"Well, the last time I tried to take a car out that way…" The boy lingered at the stable doors before giving a somewhat bashful look over one shoulder. "Well, let's just say it didn't end too well. Mud up to the radiator if you can imagine…had to get a lot of help just to fish her out…" Though that evident guilt didn't fully prevent him from achieving a slight grin as he finished. "I can get a little carried away sometimes I guess…it's fun running along the canals out there. But horses don't want to take a bad spill anymore than you do. A hunk of metal isn't nearly so self-preserving."

"I see," Rodrigue only offered lamely, left with that image and unable to really argue the reasoning before the boy had only disappeared again (it was a little alarming how easily he could) to fetch the last feed bag.

The poor terrain hadn't been exaggerated once they were actually on their way however, at least of this much Rodrigue was sure as he'd spent the first half hour or so just waiting for the old mare to buckle her knobby legs right into the mud to take down he and she both.

But on the few occasions that she actually had seemed as unsure as he did, the boy had just reached back with a kind word and a gentle tug at her reins from his own horse, bidding her through.

"Rained heavy only two days ago," the boy had added by way of explanation after the fourth or so time of the horses having to be encouraged in that manner. "Imagine it probably will again this afternoon. We'll have to be back by then. That's why I thought it'd be good to start out so early."

The idea of being cold, muddy, _and_ wet wasn't at all a pleasant one, especially this far from any shelter. Rodrigue could only hope that things wouldn't come to that. But they were this far into nothingness for a reason. He attempted to remind himself of as much even as they began the unsteady descent into yet another small gulley. The boy's dog evidently didn't seem to mind that filth however, simply plunging ahead in front of them with a good splash.

"Your family doesn't own this land as well?" Rodrigue eventually asked at least for conversation's sake though, even while warily eyeing the way the mare pussyfooted her own way into that standing water of questionable depth.

"No sir. Not this far anyway. We tried to buy it more than once of course, but the government's grabbed up most of this stretch. They're the ones who went and dug all these canals." The boy lead the way to the other side of their current ditch, only glancing back again to make sure Rodrigue's mare followed suit. "Supposed to drain floodwaters this way I guess…but most the time just makes for one heck of a mudhole as you can see."

His colleagues in the geography department would likely be more up to date than himself, but obviously much had been changed since the great floods of the past. Both through manmade means and the violence of nature herself. "So, historically speaking," Rodrigue replied regardless, trying vainly to remain somewhat balanced in the saddle as his mare kept on, "This area was once more akin to pastural lands, instead of…_this?_" The muck even had its own smell. He really tried not to notice, but he had to breathe sometime.

If the stench bothered the boy, at least he hadn't shown it. "For the most part it was. Real swamp is a bit further south of course. And back towards the levee and the plantation grounds was mostly good ground for cotton and sugarcane. But out here was more primed for grazing if you were willing to keep the land cleared. Granddaddy's family never bothered too much with cattle though. They broke a lot of horses for market, but the rest of their livestock and farming was usually just enough to get by with."

"Of humble means," Rodrigue offered, though without any patronization in the statement. Obviously, the importance of an individual's raising could never be understated when trying to understand their life. But the only way to move beyond those broad generalizations would be to search as deep as he'd be allowed. He knew that's where they were going.

"How old was he then?" Rodrigue asked plainly after another while of silence. Only in the name of his profession could that boldness sometimes manifest. There didn't need to be any other explanation for what the question meant.

"About my age when it happened." The boy's voice just came back, quieter than it had been before. But he seemed to have been further distracted then, taking note as three liveoak trees now came into view in the distance. The first seen since they'd left the plantation grounds. Likely just as old, but so much more out of place in the open here. Each behemoth stretched out in its own direction, alone at the edges of the mud.

"That's where it started." The boy finally motioned, pointing for the professor's eyes to quickly follow. "There used to be a whole line of trees here. Those three are all that's left." He stopped his horse enough to wait. "This was the edge of the Lash ranch."

Rodrigue only stared while they were both quiet in the moments that came after. The older man let his imagination out at last at that, trying to envision the land as it may have really been then. Without the smell of the mud, and something more than the sound of the wind rustling through the mottled reeds.

* * *

**Louisiana: Fall 1866**

Her laughter carried through the night as the grass parted around them. The distance between themselves and the beds they'd slipped out of now enough to minimize the risk of being heard. The two teenagers had darted past the fences and through the taller fields, towards those liveoak trees that still arched invitingly at the edges of the property lines. The branches weaved up before them in the moonlight, her slender form disappearing into their shadows as the other body rounded in close behind.

The boy had given her a generous head start, but easily kept pace after he'd flushed her from their quiet rendezvous at the barn. It was a careful game, this chase so significant to him on its own. But even he could feel when enough had been enough. His need could only wait so long. And she must have agreed that the oaks were as good a place as any to finally concede defeat, with her arms instantly snaking around him as they happily collided.

The girl's blonde hair fell messily across her face, but the smile carried through in her voice as he lifted her up easily into his arms. She fussed, whispering against his ear. "Bat Lash, that wasn't fair…you sneaky cheat."

"Counted to ten just as you asked, darlin'. But you didn't say a thing about leavin' on it!" The boy countered in a teasing smile, twirling her around if only to make her grip to him a little tighter.

"Cheater!" She still insisted.

"Now, Bitsy Gannon, don't you foul that pretty mouth with such lies!" He laughed again, trying to lean in enough for another sweet kiss that could continue the pleasantries they'd begun at the barn. But she only pressed her fingers to his lips while her next impulse had her stealing his hat instead.

"You're a tricky one, no matter which way your smart words can put it." She wasn't bashful to add, then cocking his pale hat back on her own head before leaning away from him smilingly again.

"Well, if you'd like me to prove you right…" He grinned in that purposefully wolfish way he knew she disliked so thoroughly, pressing a few quick kisses against her exposed neck instead then as she really started to giggle in his arms.

"Don't, oh you're no good! What would your mama say?" Bitsy tried to complain, though not so convincing in her own play at disapproval the more he'd continued, quickly falling into that attention herself.

"Only to be a gentleman…" he answered all too simply, already beginning that gradual walk back out from under the trees and towards the soft grass again as he kept up his affections. "…especially to such a _lovely_ girl as Elizabeth Gannon…"

Her childhood friend had always been mischievous, hard headed even if she ever tried to dissuade him from something he truly wanted. But she couldn't say exactly when she'd started to realize how much she didn't wish him any other way. She'd take his trickery, his flattery, those too-blue eyes and that sweet smile over anything else now. Because it wasn't hard at all to finally see what the other girls had always said…something she'd been blind to when she'd almost thought of him like a brother for so many years.

But now she knew. As he just kept teasing, all the while holding her so protectively, she knew there truly couldn't be a more kind hearted, beautiful young man than this. A boy that somehow, some way had seemed to now deem her skinny frame, her not quite perfect, mixed hazel eyes, and the freckles she still hadn't outgrown as acceptable in their own right.

Yet even for how blessed she felt, that still couldn't take everything she worried for away. Not yet.

"Bat…" Bitsy's tone became a little more anxious as they reentered that moonlight. If she didn't speak soon, she knew she'd lose the will all together again.

But he only looked down to her with that easy smile. In his mind, whatever reservations did remain really couldn't be so surprising. Not when so many "well meaning" people always provided their opinions so freely. Even to him, sometimes all this sneaking around could seem far more complicated than it aught to be. But the boy still saw no wrong in their actions, or in the intensity of those feelings that inspired them. They were just two young people after all…doing only what a night like this seemed meant for.

He kissed her forehead, as if trying to erase that pensive furrow in her brow. He only wanted her to relax and enjoy their time as he did. She was far too pretty to worry on the petty jealousies of pious acquaintances. "You know I'd never let you get into any trouble on my account, girl..." Bat spoke warmly, trying to use his eyes to further carry that promise.

It was so hard not to simply give in as any other night. But she'd promised herself that this was too important now, and they needed to talk about this. It couldn't wait forever. "And?" She probed quietly, though still letting him pull her softly down as she settled into his lap within the grass.

"And it feels right as rain," he spoke even more plainly, if not somewhat distractedly again, arms hugged around her waist as one hand began to stroke the small of her back. He always marveled at the little waist she hid beneath those chaste cotton dresses.

She smiled a bit again then, but still tried to ignore those soft touches. At least for a few minutes more. "You're not even trying to listen to me any longer are you?"

"I'm always listening to that pretty voice, like a morning bird's song…" The boy countered all too smoothly, only giving another quick peck at her cheek to ruin his "little bird's" subsequent attempt at a frown.

"You're not." She spoke more insistently though, laying her head down against his chest to escape any further distraction of those kisses.

The boy finally gave a look of half-apology then, though not at all minding this new positioning as the side of her face now pressed warmly against his chest. "Well?" He tried more politely, though surely hoping to continue what they'd started sooner rather than later.

"Well…" She only repeated him eventually though, finding the words still didn't come so easily even when he'd paused long enough for her to say them. How to start? How to make him really consider what she'd been thinking of for weeks upon weeks now?

But where she wouldn't fill in the holes quickly enough, of course he'd try to for her. And he wouldn't be too far from the truth either.

Though his voice sounded less relaxed at the thought. "It's that preacher Rickett and the others again isn't it? They're giving you the hard eye?"

As always, even his assumptions alone could be more accurate than anyone else's. But this wasn't the whole of the problem of course. And he had to understand that too. She knew he likely did, but was waiting for her to say something more. Or waiting to ignore this again entirely so they could just continue as usual.

Because that would have been easier. Of course it would be. But they deserved better than to keep doing things this way…if she could just outright say that…

The boy sighed a little. But he only smoothed his fingers through her hair afterward, playing with the golden strands a little before he spoke again. "You don't have to apologize to them or anyone else..." He tried to assure, though knowing he'd already said as much more than once now. Too many times really.

"But…" Again, this wasn't the full root of her concern. Yet she didn't know where to start in true explanation. "It's not just them…we're making things harder. We don't have to-"

"Bitsy…" He was trying to understand, it's not that he didn't have patience to listen. But it was also just as evident that she wasn't sure herself what all she was trying to say. "…you're worrying too much." His hand found her chin, trying to lift it up again enough to look at her.

But the girl only sensed another kiss being likely. One that would probably derail her whole will to speak any further, and so she interjected quickly before they'd fully locked eyes. Her only hope was that he wouldn't think her strange for the seemingly wholly unrelated outburst when it finally came.

"But Bat, don't you remember when we were younger? When we used to sneak out this far, just to watch the stars and the fireflies on nights like this? Don't you remember when everything was different?"

And this did catch him off guard, a confused expression she was so unused to seeing on his face. But she'd started to speak now, all she could do was continue and pray she'd put the whole thought together in some way that made sense before she was done. "I just…I mean, I was thinking about that. How there used to be so very many fireflies and we'd come out and watch them and catch them, but…now even in the summer, they're just not here anymore. It's changed. And…well, there must be a reason. Maybe it's that we've cleared the land so much over time. Maybe it wasn't right anymore for them. Like how the rabbits or the squirrels will only be where there's brush and trees. But…well that's beside the point, regardless of why exactly, our fireflies are gone. And that made me realize, it has to be that way for everything. Nothing stays the same, what was right one day, gets outgrown the next, and you have to do what's right for the future, not just for the past or present. You have to move on, and-"

He was just staring at her now, and that was the worst. She was babbling and she knew it. But it made sense in her head, it's just the words couldn't come so fluidly as his own…surely he must know what she was attempting to say. He'd always read her so well any time before, she could hide nothing from him.

"What I really mean is…everything changes. And well…I think people are much the same. I mean, we change too don't we? The way we are…what we need. We're older now, and I just though that…I-" Her courage was visibly faltering. "I just want it to be right, Bat…oh, please say something…"

His friends and family always told him he could talk his way out of anything, always with a witty response at the ready to whatever anyone put before him. Maybe even bordering on fork tongued if his mother hadn't made sure he visited church occasionally.

But in this instance, all he could think was that those people had given him _far_ too much credit. Especially with her eyes pleading at him in that way, and her warmth still against him to further cloud every rational thought. What else could he possibly do but feel like a cornered thing? Not so much unlike one of those rabbits she'd mentioned, without a briar patch to hide in.

"I didn't know you'd been thinking so strongly on it…but I…I don't have anything to my own name, Bitsy…no money, nothing to start with…" If she wasn't happy with how things were now, how would she feel if they didn't even have a roof over their head? If he couldn't provide enough to even be counted as a man. He'd truly never even considered what would come next for them. He didn't think these nights would end…

Which only made him feel even more the fool now as he struggled to find any other weak words for how caught off guard she'd found him.

But just when his heart had felt fully stuck somewhere in his throat to prevent him from revealing any further ignorance, he'd felt a soft hand moving up to stroke though his hair. Bat looked back down at her, to find only the softest sympathy in her expression.

"Don't do that…" She spoke softly.

"Do?" He questioned, at a loss all over again.

For a moment she'd seen that hint of fear and uncertainty…something she didn't think he even had within him. It unnerved her, and she was quick to soothe it away. That wasn't the Bat she knew. "It can wait," she promised then. "For when we're ready."

He tried to not look so pensive, tried not to let her misconstrue that as true hesitation. Because he couldn't even say himself what the emotion really was. He just tried to concentrate on her touch. "…but you're telling me you're ready now."

"I want you to be happy." She insisted, moving her hand from his hair, starting to lean fully into him again. Touching him then, trying to wash away that foreign strangeness.

"I am…" He answered, a little awkwardly at first, still with so many thoughts colliding even as he felt her hands beginning to move down his chest.

"Then everything else will come in time." She answered, full belief behind those words even as they finally kissed once more.

And that simple kiss would signal the end of the discussion of course. In only moments their bodies would already be pulling one another back down into the soft grass. Inexperienced hands would begin fumbling for buttons and starting to smooth back clothing.

They'd make love like any of the handful of times before. But it wouldn't truly be like before, though neither could have said why then.

It was hard to recognize a goodbye for what it was. Or an innocence they'd both be lost from for all time after.

* * *

**Louisiana: 1937**

"Boy, you must have a good sense of direction," Rodrigue couldn't help but comment, noting the lack of any perceivable landmarks once they'd left those few oak trees behind. It'd just seemed like they'd trod over barren, muddy field for all time after.

"You'll have to step down to see this," was the boy's only answer though. Surprising Rodrigue when he'd then dismounted his horse so fluidly.

But the other didn't forget him, walking back first to offer a shoulder and then a hand to help steady the professor during his contrastingly awkward movements off his own saddle.

To Rodrigue, it was somewhat of a relief to be standing on his own two feet again. But the joy of this was somewhat diminished as soon as he felt his weight sinking his leather loafers into about two inches worth of mud.

"We're going to have to get you some proper boots soon," the boy just offered by way of some apology though, yet smiling ever so slightly regardless as they'd both immediately stared down towards that distinct squishing sound.

Rodrigue could only sigh though, not being the sort to get angry at his own misfortune.

The other just went back to walking after, the dog following suit as always. Actually both seemed to know better where to step as they went through the grass. The boy still teased a little though, a little more talkative at that recent amusement. "You know, Mr. Rodrigue, they used to insulate the walls of some of the old houses down here with mud and moss. Maybe that'll keep your toes warm if you go grab some up out the trees to add to it."

"I don't think I'd like to try it," the professor just responded plainly, knowing he'd more than earned that, simply deciding to stay where he was until the other found whatever it was they were supposed to be seeing here.

It seemed as if the boy was stepping more heavily after a little while though, looking down all the while. He stopped after another moment, and then made the odd gesture of stomping one boot heel down into the grass again. It made a hard sound, not at all like the rest of the marshy ground.

But before Rodrigue could question as to what he was trying to accomplish, the other had reached down. Obviously not worried about getting a little dirty himself as he began to fight something free of the muck. He worked it back and forth several times before it was free enough to emerge from the shielding of the high grass.

He held it up so that the professor might see, even going further to wipe more of the mud away with one hand.

It was the remains of a piece of wooden beam. Charred by fire even before the elements of the last seventy years had taken their toll.

"Home sweet home." The boy just offered quietly. No other explanation really needed as they both stood over what was long buried.

* * *

_to be continued_


	3. Death Becomes You

**Author's Notes:** Next installment at last! I still live, just insanely busy with work, school, and all the hopping around the entire southeast that entails now. But hopefully I can get back on the ball with this fic now. Finally a little action this go around as well. Just a side note on names really quickly though, Bat's little brother was called both Tom and then later Billy in the comics for some reason. So I'm just going with the name Thomas William Lash...Billy to his family. That is all, please read on and review if you could! We're still just getting started though, so hopefully it will only get more interesting!

* * *

**Louisiana: Fall 1866 **

_"I want you to be happy." _

_"I am…"_

He was what?

"What was I supposed to say?" The boy finally spoke aloud, questioning to no one as he walked alone along the fence line. It was quiet out here. He didn't really like that when he was trying to think, and he'd talk to himself if he had to. But he didn't consider those funny habits much, not when the night before just kept playing over and over in his anxious mind.

They'd been so unnatural, so awkward. Not like themselves at all, and he was still determined to make that part of it understandable.

He shouldn't have been so surprised at what Bitsy had tried to tell him, even though he was. And he shouldn't have been so confused at how he'd felt in the realization. That hesitation should have at least cleared in the light of day.

But it hadn't.

Bat's hands were at his sides as he glanced occasionally to the rough edged wooden fencing he was meant to be checking. A chore he usually never minded as long as the weather was favorable. But he was too distracted to even appreciate the sun on his shoulders now as he kicked a small rock away idly.

It seemed no time at all had passed since the days he and the others would just have been planning their next adventure. Be it swimming in the creek bed, or exploring down closer to the swamp to go fishing. Bitsy's only complaint then would have been if he'd just teased her too much, maybe with a bullfrog or one of the bigger spiders they could find. They didn't think much for the future then.

So what had changed while he'd been day dreaming and living from day to day too much to pay attention?

Squinting a bit, the boy finally glanced skyward, to the blue that stretched up to eternity. But even where there were no answers for him, he couldn't help but have some humor on his lips. His expression slightly amused despite himself. He'd never really had to pray for anything, because everything was already here. But a little more clarity may have been nice now, some kind of sign post from the Almighty pointing him which way to turn.

But all there was were clouds of course, grey and growing, drifting closer all the while.

"I suppose if You haven't talked down to anybody directly since the days of lone prophets and ancient kings, You surely wouldn't start with a no name like me now would You?"

Bat raised one of his hands then, pulling the brim of his hat back down to shade his eyes before he began to walk on.

But he'd no sooner than taken three steps, before a rustle did catch his attention. Not the answer he'd expected, but one he knew all the same. And he'd just had the time to twist sideways before the sudden explosion of wings and darting shapes leapt up all around him.

It was a flurry of brown. The group of quail nearly colliding with his chest and face as they parted past him, his arm shielding himself in an instant even as he was already smirking again. That moment of fear was eclipsed all too quickly.

"You almost had me!" Bat called out across the high grass. Closer than any other time if he hadn't scared the birds up. The kid was finally learning.

"You were almost the rabbit this time!" A younger voice came back, the sound trailing around with more noise in the grass.

This was a game neither could ever really remember starting, of who could sneak up on who. Who could get who first. But they'd practically played it since Billy could walk. They called it rabbit and coyote now for lack of any better title. And Bat had never lost a round yet. But one day he would. Little brother could only get smarter. He looked forward to it in fact. "Then come on, pup! Try me again!" Bat taunted, watching all around for the hint of that next strike.

There was a fake growl that only degraded into further laughter as the smaller brother finally revealed himself, erupting out to rush for the other's long legs. "Gotcha!"

"Tch, not quite!" The grin was wide on the teenager's face as he just twisted this way and that to further allude, practically jumping over the small boy once or twice.

"You are like a jackrabbit!" Billy contested, finally getting a hold of one pant leg to try and tangle the other up.

Bat could have fought a lot harder of course, made the other really work for it. But there was little sense in depriving the boy of some small victory as they eventually tumbled back together. "Swamp rabbit more like. How do you think they stay alive? Between all the snakes and gators and foxes that'd sooner make stew of 'em."

"Gators can't cook." Billy smiled with obvious intent for praise. "But I was quieter this time wasn't I, Bat?"

He was tempted to stretch out and just remain where they now lay, but he settled for a yawn that was just as lazy. "Like a regular Indian in the grass, mon frère."

The boy remained at his side then, looking down at him. "But who were you talking to?"

They both had such good ears, Bat really couldn't be surprised at being overheard. Not that he'd explain everything of course. Billy didn't deserve any hint that life wouldn't be so simple later on. Let him enjoy the naïveté he still had. Still years from marriage and homesteads and whatever else adult men were supposed to worry for.

"Conversing with whoever was listening I suppose. God perhaps?" But again, it was also only impulsive habit to further divert with whatever comical nonsense first came to him. He smiled up at the boy. "But who's to say our Father above even speaks the language? This is La Louisiane after all. Maybe that's why he didn't answer me. English is too limited. Not that popular really."

"Maybe God likes Spanish instead?" The child was quick to play along, only amused at the notion before he gave a yawn of his own, finding the other's contagious.

They were going to both be filthy if they really tried to rest out here, but Bat really didn't feel like getting back up either. "¿Si, o alemán?" He questioned to add to the game.

"Ja, Gott spricht Deutsch?" Billy laughed again.

"Ou Dieu est un Français?" Bat added one more time.

They weren't fluent in those three languages by any means, but Mother had taught them enough for a few simple sentences at least. Basic comprehension when reading her European books especially.

"Maybe God's a Choctaw." Billy finished to put the button on the conversation.

"Hah, now that'd be interesting for the white man now wouldn't it?" Bat closed his eyes a moment. "It isn't time to go in already is it?"

"Mama's still cooking. But she says you need to come help Melissa with hemming her dress."

"The field mice would miss me too terribly."

Bat only expected some little retort afterward at that, but then there was just the sound of the other getting comfortable beside him.

"I'm tired too. Papa had me clean the chicken coop."

"Then I won't tell if you don't. You were helping me mend the fence. Right?"

This brought a conspiratory laugh. "Okay."

"Deal." Hopefully their mother wouldn't be too cross. They'd come back in a little while after all. Just a few more minutes stretched out in the sun, side by side like her two lazy cubs that they were. Too much of that adulthood thing still trying to go around too after all.

Of course, it was only about three or four minutes until the rest gave way to napping though. And past that, actual sleep. But even there Bat couldn't fully get away anymore. His mind still churned far too much. Bringing out the oddest images to assault him with.

* * *

He found himself standing in the church in town. Not the small protestant one more near the northern side of the street, but the large Catholic one that was much older. The place where his parents had been married. The place where they'd said he'd been baptized as a baby. The ornate old building with the imported stained glass and the carved crosses with precious stones inlaid inside them. The kind of place where Bitsy would surely want to give herself away if they ever decided on their future.

He could make out the familiar Stations of the Cross on the walls as he passed them, walking down that red center aisle. But he was alone as he looked from one pew to another. All he saw were the remnants of people, as if everyone had vanished in mid service.

Bibles and hymn books were laid about, pages tattered and forgotten across the floor. Flowers with their petals all gone, still tied where they'd been left. Decorations that seemed for something long passed.

_A wedding mass?_

The candles at the altar had burned down to nothing, pools of wax all around them. The smells of old incense and wine still hung strong in the air. Bat finally paused at the statue of the virgin and child. He'd seen her many times, his mother bringing him to this place often throughout his short life. Yet she'd never forced religion upon them. Like anything they'd learned, she only wished her children to be informed. At least appreciate the culture she'd come from.

And he remembered it all now, the details would never be wrong in his memories. But it didn't feel anything like it should. There was no solace here. No warmth as he thought of his mother leading them in for Easter or Christmas masses on the days they had attended.

Even as he tried to recall the way Melissa had picked her favorite saints on the beauty and kind looks of their statues, he didn't feel any of that beauty now. There was a difference, something unsettling as he stared up, from the Virgin Mary, to St. Margaret, to St. Catherine.

They were all staring down at him, and he'd never felt quite as claustrophobic. Like the walls were shrinking in around him, drawing closer at the edges of his vision. He thought he saw _something_ dart across by the door though, and he was sure enough to turn his head quickly towards the movement. But that was a mistake on his part.

He should have never looked away.

His stomach clenched, but he wouldn't look back. The statues had changed as soon as his eyes had partially left them. They were something else entirely now, something horrible. He knew enough to _not_ look back as he tried to jerk his body away.

But of course then, he could never move fast enough. As if his boots were full of lead as he stumbled and the panic began to set in. There was something entirely wrong with this place. Something he had to get away from.

Yet all he could do was stumble like a wounded animal, never look back and try to pull himself on from one pew to the next as his feet wouldn't fully obey him.

And the smells of the candles, of the incense only grew infinitely stronger. As if the whole place knew its farce was up. Everything began to change, revealing for what it really was, more and more like ash and something even worse. A terrible fiery smell he had no words for, but it stole the very breath from his lungs as he collapsed to one knee.

He tried to claw his way back up, towards the door. The door that seemed to stretch miles into the distance now.

_Too late. _

Embers were falling all around him, singing his skin, burning. But he could never see the fire and he couldn't even get a deep enough breath to cough any of the soot from his lungs. Everything was becoming blackened, like it all was burning from the inside out. He closed his eyes to keep the embers from them. But also out of cowardice for what was inevitable.

He was going to burn.

It wasn't real. It was the most vivid nightmare he had ever had, but it _**wasn't**_ real.

_There's no fire. _He told himself._  
_

But it hurt, it hurt so much...

Why...why was this happening?

_Why-_

* * *

The blue eyes shot open, hot breath still on his face and smoke in his lungs as every muscle in his body jumped.

The animal was staring down at him, nostrils inches from his face. For one insane moment Bat thought the uproar of laughter truly came from it. He still couldn't find the ability to breathe.

With another laugh that resounded all the way from the pit of his stomach, Don Pasqual had to catch his own breath, finally pulling the curious cow back away from the elder Lash boy.

"I never seen you look so scared, amigo! Haha, Isabella only wished to say hello! Perhaps she thought that was a bit of hay on your head, yes?"

Billy was now standing at the Mexican man's side as well. "Bat, you should have seen yourself! You are a jackrabbit! You see him jump like that?"

"Right out of his white skin." Don Pasqual agreed, albeit finally offering a hand down to Bat. "Your papa says you need to come cut that firewood now. And your seester says you're one lazy, dirty hombre because she still needs help with her dress."

Bat took the offered hand, too rattled still to honestly be very angry at their prank as he finally stood. Though he could tell now that the smell of smoke was coming from the east. One of their neighbors likely burning brush. That was all. He coughed once, clearing his throat before he answered. "She's only fussin' so much about that dang dress because she's all moon eyed over that Rigaud boy now."

"And the dance at the plantation is only in a few weeks, yes? She wants to be a rich girl, Bat! Like the fairy tale."

His heartrate was finally getting somewhere close to normal again as he started brushing the grass off his shirt and pants "Hah, Lord knows why we're even invited in that case. We really would show up in a pumpkin if we could. With mice pulling it."

This comment only earned a hardy slap on the back as Don Pasqual simply laughed again. "Being poor never stopped you from dancing with the fancy ladies now has it?"

"But he likes _Bitsy_." Billy teased, stretching out the word as he smartly moved just out of his brother's reach.

Bat sighed, starting to walk on with the both of them. "You two are a bad influence on each other, you know that? And somehow I always end up caught in between! What did I ever do?"

Isabella the cow snorted at that, only leaving Don Pasqual and Billy to burst out laughing all over again. Bat threw his hands up in exaggerated surrender as they continued towards the farmhouse.

* * *

The strange nightmare, and all the other odd emotions of the last twenty four hours were finally beginning to fade as he started to break a sweat, sweeping down one of their axes again and again to break the heavy chunks of wood his brother continued to put in front of him.

Their father stood only a small distance away, arranging the chopped pieces into a neat stack for the coming winter beside the barn. Everything seemed back as it should be, including the normal small talk between them.

"So what's your opinion on that new pinto, son? She coming along any?"

Bat glanced up between swings. "Besides the fact she likes to bite me at any and every opportunity?" The teenager couldn't help but smile a little again though when he heard another giggle from Billy at that.

They'd all been there of course the last time the horse had thrown Bat, and subsequently gone to trying to chew on him for good measure. Billy glanced up. "She's pretty mean, huh? Meaner than the boys even."

"Girls are _always_ meaner than the boys. Just look at Melissa." Bat offered with another smirk that had his brother even more amused. After another drop of the axe though, Bat glanced back towards his father at least a little more seriously. "She takes to a saddle infinitely better than she used to. Still hates the feel of a bit in her mouth of course, and is hard headed as anything when it comes to direction, but I imagine she isn't quite out to kill me as she used to be."

"That's good," their father answered simply. Bat certainly hadn't inherited his penchant for flowery words and long sentences from the namesake of the Lash family. But that was fine, the elder Lash was someone who didn't need a lot of words to garner respect. As big, and tough as anything, though of course his children knew how soft his heart really was.

They carried on in silence for another little while after that though. Nothing else really needing to be said, the odd way you could just enjoy one another's presence when you knew each other so innately. These likely were the only times Bat could physically remain so quiet though, when he was in the presence of his father.

It was relaxing. Nothing to worry for, nothing to try and understand or do, but just keep swinging that axe clean and true after each time his brother set another piece of wood in front of him. They worked in sync with one another, the smell of their mother's food still wafting out the nearby house as promised reward.

It wasn't until Billy failed to set the next piece on the stump, that Bat had paused at all. For a moment he thought they may have finished, until he realized his younger brother was just staring warily out into the distance. Looking down the dirt path that led to the closest thing they could claim for a road.

Listening, he then heard what his brother had. The sound of rapid hoof beats, only giving the briefest warning before a lone figure came into view.

Bat only felt Billy stepping back behind him then, shy as anything with anyone outside their immediate household, as their father by contrast was already stepping forward to greet the new arrival.

But Bat had no issue with providing cover for his brother, though not out of shyness himself of course. Yet he wasn't exactly as friendly as their father either. At least not when he realized _who_ had come to greet them.

It was the scrawny preacher Rickett who jumped off some sickly looking mule in front of them now. The preacher of course hung his hat at the little protestant outfit in town, not the Catholic building that'd recently featured in Bat's most interesting nightmare.

Not that a particular denomination of faith had any bearing on Bat's judgment. The Lashes had attended service there before as well. It was the preacher himself that gave the boy issue. Mostly when he only reminded Bat all over again of what he and Bitsy had discussed the night before. The pressure she felt to change everything so quickly now. The pressure to stand in a church and swear herself away to him, or be counted as less than a person by people like Rickett who tended to run their mouths about anyone and everyone.

But it didn't take long for the preacher to move forward anyway, either oblivious to both Lash brothers' hesitance, or not at all caring on their sensitivities as he slapped Bat on the shoulder with emphasis. "Well didn't you hear me, _boy?_ I tell you and your father, I've got some news you should just be _itchin'_ to hear. The Lord has blessed this family surely, and all you need now do is follow me to see how very true that is."

The older man grinned wide with his gap toothed smile and Bat felt Billy shrink all the tighter to his leg.

"This will be a _whole_ new future for you all. I guarantee it!"

* * *

**Louisiana: 1937 **

"Rickett?" Rodrigue questioned as the two of them walked on, following what must have once been the farmhouse's perimeter.

"Yes, sir." The boy answered, just turning over another old board with one boot, looking for anything more of interest. "He called himself a preacher, but from what Granddaddy said, I doubt that man ever had much fear of God in him at all. Not if he was able to look all those men and women straight in the eyes, while stealin' all they'd ever worked for right out from under them."

"How many families were affected by this?" The professor asked with a continuing strain of interest he couldn't hope to hide as more details came. All the while just trying to stay in the footsteps of the other, those harder spots where the mud wouldn't swallow the both of them right up.

"You'd be surprised. The man Rickett worked for, Melvin Midas, he bought up near all the choice pastureland from here to the plantation using that scheme. Getting the preacher, or any other of his lackeys to convince the owners of each that they had some sort of resource on part of their land. Oil on the Lash's part of course, but I heard they used tricks with fake mineral deposits too. Anything to get those ranchers to sell the lion's share of their property in a cheap rush in order to finance the capital to mine the supposed valuable rest."

"It's amazing they didn't get found out sooner…" The professor could only state plainly, unable to really fathom the level of sheer gall and greed it would have taken any conman to succeed at something as grandiose as that. "Surely someone tried to stop him before then?"

The other smiled lightly at that, stopping again to look nowhere in particular. "Well, the people he crossed before weren't exactly like Granddaddy I guess. It wasn't as if many could prove when they'd been swindled either. They'd sold their land legally. And a man like Midas sure had enough of the parish officials on his payroll to keep it that way."

"Well how long did it take your grandfather to find out?" Rodrigue had already taken his notebook out some time ago as they walked, not at all embarrassed to begin moving his pen rapidly across the page now. This was what he was here for after all.

However, it was clear the boy still found it somewhat odd to have such an attentive audience though. But he didn't quit talking, just shrugging a little. "Too long I'm sure he would have said. I guess you could understand why he would have hated talking too much about that. Being young and all, not really seeing what was happening right in front of him. Those kind of schemes would be kid stuff to him later on I guess. But he didn't think like that then. He didn't have any reason to, you know? Even if he didn't like Rickett much from the get go, why would ya think someone you'd never done anything towards would want to hurt ya that badly?"

"But it was still Bat who realized it first wasn't it?"

"Yes, sir." The boy admitted. "He found some of those oil cans old Rickett had used to spread those first pools of crude around the property."

"But that still doesn't seem like much evidence…I mean, with what happened in town…" Rodrigue was just walking now, just following with his ears. But when the boy looked back at him, the real weight of it struck him all over again. He couldn't quite read the expression in those blue eyes, but he could only imagine how much that stare may have been a glimpse into the past. They would have been near the same age then. Bat Lash and this boy. It was a hard to imagine someone so young doing so much…or having so much done to him.

"He didn't go to town looking to have _that _happen, Mr. Rodrigue. But it ended up that way all the same." The boy took another breath, looking downward back at the mud. "It'll always be up to everyone else to judge what he did…I know that. But I can tell you what he said to me. He said that day was one of only two gunshots he regretted most in all his life. If there'd been anything he could truly take back…"

* * *

**Louisiana: Fall 1866 **

The boy had never known rage before. No anger that could be as pure as it was vile, burning straight through the veins. He didn't have the foresight either then to consider it for exactly what it was. Like the crumbling, and the burning of his nightmares.

This was a fire that ate flesh, ate soul. Their first introduction to one another as he'd urged his horse on all that much harder. To town, where the people stared, the whites of their eyes wide as he passed, his overworked animal practically grunting as its hooves pounded the dirt and its hide sweated.

Church was just letting out as he rode down the street. A crowd ebbing out the small cathedral. He didn't look at any of them. He knew Rickett wouldn't be among the Catholics.

But that didn't mean they couldn't see him.

"It's the Lash boy, what's he doing?" they called.

"Slow down! Are you trying to trample someone! There's children in the street!" another yelled.

"Bat! Hey, Bat, what's wrong!"

He had no choice but to slow when so many bodies were in his way, his horse anxious, stepping in place, as he tried to force it through.

It wasn't until someone reached up to catch his horse's bridle that he was forced to stare down into the crowd.

"Woah there, son…can't you see that horse is about to give up? Take it easy, it's Sunday you know."

It was a man about his own father's age that'd steadied his horse, the face vaguely familiar. But Bat would barely look once at him to even register the kindness or concern in the words. "You're right." Bat just muttered, heels urging his horse out of the man's grasp just as abruptly. "And the Sheriff better be at his desk even on a Sunday."

* * *

But when the boy had finally reached his destination, that lawman he'd known since a child _wasn't_ there. It was just some careless looking deputy he'd never seen anytime before, but that hadn't been enough to give him pause either. Bat couldn't have hoped to stop the words from pouring out his mouth now, rattling on even before the stranger had truly acknowledged him.

Yet even when that man had no choice but to listen, the words seemed to be barely heard.

Bat's hands slammed the desk as his glare only grew harder on the stranger. "I'm telling you, to listen to me, dammit! Melvin Midas has stolen every decent piece of ranchland in the parish with this scheme! My family's land, the Gannon's land, the Parker's, the LeBlanc's, and I don't know how many more! You can't just sit here and keep tellin' me that all these people don't count up to enough evidence for you! This ain't anything but exactly what I'm saying! He's a goddamn crook, and you've got to do something about it!"

When the other man finally stood up, maybe he'd hoped to be taller than Bat. But he really wasn't, even as he grabbed hold of the teenager's shirt in one violent motion. "I don't _have_ to do jack shit! Leastwise take orders from a whining ass little pup like you, boy! Now get back to your mama, before I really decide to take offense at how big and tough you think ya are!"

He wasn't afraid. If anything, the shock of seeing just how little the supposed law really cared for the destruction of all these families he knew, only enraged him that much further. But each time he attempted to think of another bunch of angry words to spit out like poison, the more his brain was trying to tell him how futile it was. The man he dealt with shouldn't be counted as that much. He was a closed headed fool, and Bat had to find the real Sheriff. This was only a further waste of time. More time that Midas was going unpunished.

The man shoved him back roughly when he still hadn't gone away. "You heard me, brat! Get back to the shithole you crawled from! And quit wastin' the parish's time with your cry baby stories! Get out of here before I get ugly!"

"You already are." Bat couldn't help but grumble, but his mind was actually winning briefly over his hatred as he did step for the door. The failure was still palpable however as he exited, crossing resentfully back to the side where he'd left his horse. He untied it, pulling it into the alleyway between buildings while he tried to think.

Where was the real Sheriff?

He hated himself when he didn't know exactly what to do next, where to direct all this emotion to do the best good. But there _had_ to be justice. He couldn't give up, and he couldn't let those families down. Not his own or Bitsy's. So much depended on him so suddenly, and no one would hear him. No one else cared. He had to _make_ them care.

His heart now felt as useful as a piece of lead in his chest, miserable and hopeless in that moment as he'd just begun to put his foot back in the stirrup. But his ears were too good once more. He'd heard a familiar voice and he'd stopped.

He'd turned back.

He never should have done that. If he'd only-

But it was too late.

He didn't leave.

He'd seen Rickett through the window, heard that greasy son of a bitch laughing with the deputy now. Saying how Midas would laugh with them at about what a fool Bat was. About what they'd done together. They were all in it _together_. That's what it was. All of them against him, a pack of devils all too happy about the lives they'd destroyed.

His brain was the last thing he could hear then.

It was hard to say how fast your body could move when it was doing so on its own accord. Like an animal, Bat had found himself back through that door. In the future he wouldn't even remember what he'd yelled out. He might have called them cowards, he might have called them worse.

But he'd gone for the deputy first, and they'd said something back. It'd been Rickett that'd first said to kill him. But Bat had been too close, far too fast for the deputy to properly aim his gun. The pistol had only fallen from his hand as Bat's fist had been across the deputy's jaw in a flash. The boy had wanted to lay him out cold. Knock every tooth from that sneering mouth.

Yet he still had been so young. Even the rage didn't make him invulnerable. The deputy had clocked him just as hard, knocked him backwards to the floor at some point. Rickett had slipped out the door by then. Bat had glanced for a single instance to make that realization, and at the next, he'd seen the deputy pulling a carbine off the wall towards him.

He'd heard sometime before that in pure moments of terror, the world would slow down. That every detail would be seen and felt before the very end. But the fractions of time between when his hand felt the deputy's dropped pistol on the floor, and the moment the boy had stared down the barrel of a gun for the very first time in his life had seemed nothing more than a blink of an eye. A heartbeat between heaven and hell.

And then it was over.

His ears were ringing with the sound of the shot. He could taste the bit of blood in his mouth from the earlier punch, and he could smell the gunsmoke in the air.

The deputy's eyes were wide, afraid, maybe as much as Bat's own as they stared out at one another. But the man didn't say anything that was a real word. He didn't need to, the primal gargle of blood was enough for a million words.

The language of death. It was there as the deputy's eyes bored into his own, fear, hatred, and the things that could not be named all flickering out behind those eyes. It was in the last desperate twitches of muscle to move towards him. Until everything was consumed and only blackness remained.

Bat knew it now.

And it knew him.

* * *

**Louisiana: 1937 **

"And then?" Rodrigue was no doubt mesmerized now. It didn't matter how many times he'd heard this part of the story. It had all the more meaning in the world as the boy told it. It ceased to be just random folk tale, and certainly more than the vague renditions still recounted today if only to bolster the revitalization of American interest in lawless figures.

"He about ran that horse to death, that's what." The boy answered quietly, only steadying one of their own horses a bit at the first rumble of thunder above. "Guess the rain's coming quicker than I thought though. Come on, I'll head you off to where they used to be buried."

"Used to?" Rodrigue repeated, the boy already beginning to help him awkwardly up onto the old mare again.

"Yes, sir." He answered solemnly. "Turns out even this land ain't hospitable for the dead anymore."

* * *

_to be continued_


End file.
